


In Firelight.

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-10
Updated: 2008-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By firelight, Mordred and Gawain realise something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Firelight.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Scribewraith

 

 

Mordred had awoken before dawns early light stained the land of Orkney. He'd taken one of the shaggy ponies from the Hall stables, riding as far as he could as fast as he could. These early morning rides were a pleasure that were oft denied him now, as Lot trained his sons Agravaine, Gaheris and Gawain - and Mordred - in the arts of battle to prepare them for presentation at Camelot. Mordred had little interest in swords and shields, axes and spears and oft confused vanguards for vanbraces, wondering why the former were too large for his arms and the latter too small for his legs until Gawain whispered to him what his error was. Lot was impatient with his youngest student, frequently ignoring Mordred in favour of his own brood. 

Despite his dislike of weapons, there was no doubt that Mordred was skilled with a bow and his prowess as a hunter was par none. Lot would glower when Mordred would return proud and flushed from a successful hunt (in weather that had stronger men, hard-bitten warriors, huddled around the fire pits) with a deer and would mutter something about Mordred being tainted by the blood of his mother Morgaine, being as fey as her, and as evil. He would make the sign of the evil eye as he passed the lad, shuddering as he felt Mordred's piercing blue eyes upon him and not seeing the hope for approval and acceptance fading slowly from those eyes.

Morgause, Mordred's aunt - sister to Morgaine - and Lot's wife, would tell him he had done well, smooth back his black hair and order the kitchen wenches to dress and prepare the deer. Lot might not favour his youngest charge, but he certainly did not decline the fruits of Mordred's hunts, consuming venison and ale in equal measure, laughing raucously with his men and making lewd jokes and singing bawdy stories that made Mordred blush and scamper from the room.

"The boy is too fragile," Lot had been heard to say, and Mordred felt the sting of shame then, when he understood that there was naught that he could say or do that would gain him approval in his uncle's eyes. "He is his mother's son."

Morgause would tut-tut at her husband, replying as she always did, "He will stand us in good stead, husband."

Mordred did not understand what that meant back then, during those endless days of wind wailing through the trees and across the heaths of the Orkney Islands. Only years later, upon presentation to Arthur's court and the revelation of his heritage, would he understand, and he would weep at the betrayals, the rage and frustration welling within him, finding an outlet in such a womanly emotion as tears.

Now, however, Mordred delighted in the feeling of the bunch-relax-bunch of the muscles of his pony as the animal galloped through the forest of dark fir and aspen, laughed at the sense of freedom his wild ride upon a half-tamed beast gave him. He was free from Lot's displeasure and from the teasing of Agravaine and Gaheris for another day; free from Morgause's fussing over him, free from Gawain's too-familiar gaze upon him as he fumbled with buckles and armour and weaponry. Mordred let the pony pick the destination, content to feel as one with the animal as it galloped along barely-visible lanes, rabbit trails and deer tracks, deep into the woods and towards the narrow paths that wound around the edge of the bluff so high above the crashing seas that surrounded Orkney.

*~*~*

"And here you are my mouse."

Mordred jumped and let out a surprised squawk. "Gawain!"

"Aye." Gawain laughed and waved a hand as Mordred struggled to get up from where he had been comfortably dozing amid long, sun-browned grass, the pony grazing a few feet away. "Nay, stay where you are. I will join you." He sank easily to the ground, settled comfortably beside Mordred. "Father is displeased."

"Lot is always displeased," Mordred said with a pout.

Gawain laughed again. "In truth, he is. He is working Agravaine most harshly as you are not present for morning training."

Mordred snorted. "Agravaine is strong enough to endure it."

"But are you strong enough to endure Agravaine's anger?" Gawain's pale green eyes gazed at Mordred steadily.

Mordred let out a long sigh and looked down, dark hair spilling into his eyes. 

"That is what I thought." Gawain laid a hand upon Mordred's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Agravaine will calm down when he has his fill of mead and venison."

"I should hunt, then, that Agravaine is suitably satisfied," Mordred retorted, unable to hide the resentment he felt.

Gawain squeezed Mordred's shoulder a little more forcefully. "Nay, my mouse, _we_ will hunt together."

Mordred looked at Gawain then, at the fine, pale features, the eyes the colour of new spring grass, shoulder length golden hair. Gawain was, to Mordred's mind, the archetype of the Celtic warrior - broad of shoulder and chest, skin coloured gold by long hours spent working and training in the sun, tattoos that symbolised Epona, the Lady of Horses, and Lugh, the Lord of Three Faces, upon his upper arms and at his hairline. Mordred was aware, then, of how he was _not_ the picture of the Celtic warrior, and he looked down again, a flush colouring his cheeks.

"What is it, my mouse?" Gawain's voice was gentle. "Speak."

Mordred shrugged. "Lot wishes me to be that which I am not. I am not a warrior; I am not of the Celtiad, I am not of his loins. He wishes very much that I be gone and not taint his house with my _darkness_ ," the last word spat out, "so that he may not look upon me nor think of me again."

There was silence for a moment and then Gawain spoke softly, fervently. "I do not wish you to be these things, Mordred. You are of Breton, your mother and mine are of Cornwall and Breton, and their lineage is a proud and noble one. None here are your equal with the bow, and none here are your equal in spirit and soul." He lightly touched Mordred's dark hair, fingers lightly tracing the tattoo at Mordred's temple. "You bear the signs and sigils for Nodens, Lord of Hunting and the Sea and Belisama, Lady of Lakes and Rivers, Crafts and Light. Yours is a noble heritage, my mouse, and you do yourself a disservice by wishing otherwise."

Mordred sighed and looked out over the sea. It was calm today - calmer than was usual - the water a deep blue, topped with white foam. "Why do you call me that, Gawain? Why 'my mouse'?"

Gawain was silent and still and Mordred, surprised, turned to face the young man who was his cousin and who he had been taught to defer to as his elder brother. Gawain was not looking at him; instead his eyes were cast down towards the grass. 

"Gawain?"

It was Gawain's turn to sigh. "Mordred...please. Do not ask this of me. Not yet."

Mordred frowned. "As you wish."

*~*~*

Agravaine and Lot both were appeased by the brace of duck and the strong buck that Mordred presented as both apology and explanation for his absence at training that day. Lot gave his nephew a long look, grunted and walked away, and Mordred felt relief that his uncle had not lingered. Agravaine scowled and shrugged, reached to tug one of the tight braids in Mordred's dark hair painfully, and made him promise not to be absent from training the following day.

Relieved that he had been spared a beating or worse, Mordred nodded and promised to be where he was supposed to be and with another painful tug upon the braid, Agravaine had left him alone in the store room with several carcasses to dress.

It was hot, smelly work, and Mordred laboured at it, determined to be finished in good time so that the cook could prepare a feast. At long last, two hours before sundown, meat and birds dressed, Mordred carried them to the back door of Lot's Hall and handed them gratefully to the wenches who assisted the cook. Then he took himself to the stables and tugged off his tunic, slick and sticky with blood and offal. He went to the well and drew up a bucket of icy cold water and, shivering, managed to wash the worst of the muck from his skin. The water he then poured into the herb garden, mindful of what his mother had told him on one of her infrequent visits, that water and blood were good for plants and caused them to grow larger and healthier. 

Mordred's teeth were chattering as he took the bucket back to the well and then trotted across the yard to the Hall. He slipped in through one of the servant's entrances, made his way hastily to his room, where he closed and bolted the door with great relief. There was a plate of bread and cheese upon the plain table within, a jug of wine and a bowl of water and Mordred kicked off his boots and set them beside the door to clean in the morning. He sat at the table, poured himself a glass of wine and ate the cheese and bread with relish, letting the warmth of the fire in the tiny grate warm him slowly.

From the Hall below came the sounds of feasting and merriment and Mordred slowly allowed himself to relax. Safe in his room, he would not be required to attend the evening meal and endure hour after hour of bawdy talk and singing, not have to remain still under the weight of Lot's disapproving gaze. He stretched and stood, moved to the fire and held out his hands, sighing with contentment at the warmth.

There was a light tap upon the door. "Mordred?" 

Surprised, Mordred went to the door and opened it, beheld Gawain standing upon the threshold. "Gawain? I had thought you to be enjoying the feast."

Gawain grinned, a boyish, cheeky expression, and Mordred found himself grinning in return. "Aye, and so I was until Father was deep in his cups. I made my escape and came to spend the time with you...if you would allow it?"

"Allow it? Aye, Gawain, aye," and Mordred ushered Gawain into his tiny room, closing and bolting the door. 

Gawain smiled and sat upon the worn cow skin upon the floor before the fire. "I brought meat," he said, holding up a plate. 

Mordred laughed, grabbed the wine jug from the table and joined Gawain by the fire. "Thank you. Alas, I have but one cup..."

"Then we shall drink from the jug together," Gawain said cheerfully. "To our good health, Mordred, my mouse."

"To our good health," Mordred agreed, "Gawain, my brave warrior."

Gawain's eyes were dark, the flickering fire reflected within the green depths as he looked at Mordred. "Am I, Mordred?"

Mordred blinked. "Are you which?"

"Yours."

Mordred blinked again. Suddenly, realisation hit him and he felt himself a fool. "Oh," he breathed. "I am a fool, and a blind fool at that. I did not realise..."

Gawain scrambled to his feet. "I have said too much," he gasped. "I should leave."

"Gawain! Wait!" Mordred grabbed the other man's arm. "I had not yet finished."

Gawain paused, biting on his lower lip as if in dread.

"I did not realise," Mordred said gently, "that the feelings I had for you would, could, be felt in return."

Gawain's expression was incredulous. "You are humouring me," he said softly, and his voice sounded rough. "You speak of things that you do not understand..."

"I understand," Mordred replied firmly. "I am not a suckling infant, Gawain. I am a man, ten and seven years in age, and I understand well what it is we speak of. I have seen that you have little interest in those young ladies Lot would have you court and marry," and he nodded as Gawain blushed crimson, "and would prefer to spend time with men - long after the lights are out and the rest of the house is sleeping."

"You have been spying upon me?" Gawain's voice held no reprisal, merely sorrow.

"Nay, brother, it was by chance that I came upon you when I went to ride early one morning many months ago. I knew then, as I beheld you, lost in your passion, so beautiful, so _golden_ , as if cast by the hands of the Gods themselves, that I was not alone in this house of Lot who felt thusly for my own sex."

Gawain blinked, looking so young that Mordred smiled. He reached out and pulled Gawain close, wrapping his arms around him, sighing softly as he felt the hard, muscled body of the heir to Orkney in his arms. "It is not something to be ashamed of, my warrior," he said softly into Gawain's golden hair.

"How is it that you, my younger by four years, can be so calm?" Gawain's voice shook with emotion. "Father would kill us both..."

"Lot is a fool," Mordred said firmly. "And an aging fool at that. Tell me truly, Gawain, do you not believe you could overwhelm him in battle? That I could not strike with a killing shot from my bow long 'ere he gave orders to do us harm? He is old, and we, my golden prince, are young and strong."

Gawain shuddered in Mordred's arms and pulled back a little, gazing into the deep blue of the younger man's eyes. "Your eyes see into the soul of the world," he said softly, "and they see into mine and into my heart. I can dissemble before you not a whit. In truth, long have I wished for you in my arms, my mouse. Long have I wished for you in my bed."

"And so have I of you, my warrior." Mordred smiled. "You are beautiful, Gawain. You remind me of pictures I have seen of Greek Gods and Heroes."

"Do you not see your own beauty?" Gawain's voice was rough. "Do you not see that you are as beautiful to me as a storm? You are not a mouse, my Mordred, nay; you are an eagle; powerful, solitary, carving his own destiny and not beholden to any man nor woman, carried upon the winds of the Gods."

"You see me through coloured eyes," Mordred whispered.

"Aye," Gawain agreed. "I see you through the colour of the love one man has for another, as brothers in arms, comrades, friends, soldiers, hunters, and lovers."

Mordred kissed him then, shy and clumsy, blushing at his ineptitude, but emboldened by Gawain's words. He felt Gawain's fingers in his hair, gently stroking between the tight braids and the dark locks that fell free to his shoulders. He moaned softly as Gawain deepened the kiss, felt the desperate want and desire flow between them both. "How long?" he asked as Gawain kissed the corner of his lips, then his cheeks, then his neck.

"Lugh have mercy," Gawain whispered. "For so long, my eagle. Long since you came into manhood and received your sigils upon your body, that night I did take myself into my hand and stroke, thinking of your pale skin and those newly etched marks and signs, the way you looked, so proud, so strong, so free...and how you were so silent. I knew then you were no longer Mordred the Mouse but Mordred the Eagle, but I could not say it...not until this night."

"Then let us speak more of this later," Mordred whispered, cupping Gawain's face in his hands. "Show me of the love between men, my Gawain. Have me as I have wanted you to have me these many years past."

Gawain kissed Mordred, deep and sensual, their tongues twining together, and they lay as one upon the cow skin beside the fire. Calloused fingers made quick work of disrobing and it was soon that they lay skin to skin, pale bodies lit by the glow of the fire, hands slowly tracing paths along scars and muscles, mapping and committing to memory every line of the other's body. 

It hurt, oh, how it hurt; it burned, worse than when one's hand is plunged into a forge, and Mordred struggled not to cry out his pain when Gawain entered him for the first time. But Gawain soothed with gentle caresses and soft kisses, calmed with loving words and tender murmurs, and the burn eased to an ache. Mordred clung to Gawain as he sat upon his lap, feeling Gawain's length deep within him, marvelling at the sensations as Gawain gently rocked inside his body, the friction of sweat-slick skin against his own hardness feeding the fire of love and lust that burned within Mordred. And when Gawain found his release, he kissed Mordred hard, bit lightly upon his lip and moaned Mordred's name, and Mordred gasped as he felt himself fall over the edge of pleasure into the abyss, Gawain's name upon his heart and his lips. 

*~*~*

The fire had died down to embers and they lay together beneath the furs tugged from Mordred's bed, gently touching each other, kissing tenderly.

"And so what now, my warrior?" Mordred smiled at Gawain and Gawain smiled back.

"I am yours, Mordred, my eagle, as I have been for these many years past. Each day shall be as it comes, but know that I am yours, always."

"Aye, and I yours, my Gawain, my warrior." Mordred's smile broadened. "Naught else matters to me."

"And when I am Lord of Orkney," Gawain said with an impish grin, "I shall announce that Mordred Ap Artouiros is my consort and none shall gainsay this, for it is truth and truth is always."

"And one day, perhaps I shall meet the Artouiros to whom I owe my life," Mordred mused, and Gawain laughed. "But that is for later, and we are for now and for always."

"For always," Gawain agreed. 

Notes: Arthur's name as Artouiros: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Arthur#Name Lugh: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lugus http://www.shee-eire.com/Magic&Mythology/Gods&Goddess/Celtic/Gods/Lugh/Page1.htm http://www.pantheon.org/articles/l/lugh.html Epona: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epona http://www.epona.net/introduction.html http://www.pantheon.org/articles/e/epona.html Nodens: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nodens http://www.pantheon.org/articles/n/nodens.html http://www.celtnet.org.uk/gods_n/nudd.html Belisama: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belisama http://www.pantheon.org/articles/b/belisama.html http://www.celtnet.org.uk/gods_b/belisama.html

 


End file.
